


Line and Sinker

by asuralucier



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But if he eats raw fish he'll get mercury poisoning, Character Study, Closure, Divergent from S3, Fishing Metaphors Ahoy, Food, Funny Oceanography don’t think too hard about it kthx, M/M, Mackerel - Freeform, Teaching a man to fish is all well and good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Will and Hannibal go fishing.(Or: Will and Hannibal go away for a nice weekend in the Sorrentine Peninsula. Abigail Hobbs is still dead, and apparently this is what they call a sticking point. )
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52
Collections: All The Nice Things Flash Exchange 2020





	Line and Sinker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheeon/gifts).



It's Hannibal who suggests that they get away for a change. The Sorrentine Peninsula, about five hours from Florence by train, is great for fishing this time of year. Will does miss fishing, but that's something Hannibal already knows about him like an old seasoned hand.

Before they set off on their chartered excursion, Giovanni asks if either of them has ever gone fishing. Giovanni’s boat is a plain rickety thing, and she needs a new coat of paint. But he assures them that his boat has seen him through many unsteady waves along the rocky coast. Further, it’s a point of pride for Giovanni, that he’s even helped a woman give birth on his boat once. After more polite prodding from Hannibal, Giovanni deflates a little and admits that the boat wasn’t on the water at the time of the birth. She’d been docked.

“Still,” Will says; he can’t say exactly why, but he feels like he ought to throw the guy a bone. Come to think of it, he and Hannibal have never really revisited their subconscious good cop bad cop routine in any great detail, but it’s worked so far. “I think that’s impressive. That’s never happened to me.” 

The closest thing Will has seen to that effect, is that once he’d witnessed when a dead horse had given birth to a human corpse. Somehow, Will doesn’t think that counts. These days, he takes a broad view on nearly everything. 

Hannibal gives Will a look, but doesn’t say anything. Giovanni, on the other hand, appears a little bit grateful. “It doesn’t happen every day, no?” 

“Definitely not.” 

Giovanni goes on to explain that they are fishing for mackerel. Most neophytes (a word that he’s very proud about knowing the meaning of, and how to pronounce it) don’t know how much goes into fishing. Giovanni spreads out a nautical map, makes Will hold one end of it, and explains their plan of attack, his weathered fingers passing over odd abbreviations and well-trodden (or perhaps more fitting in this case, well-sailed) routes. 

It’s a thinking man’s sport. 

“It’s very like hunting, or going to war,” Giovanni says, as the engine of his boat sputters to life. “As the predator, we have to know what we’re hunting, the habit of our prey. No sense in casting blind. You’d always come up empty.” 

Hannibal settles a hand near Will’s elbow. “We’ve had some experience with that.” 

Will looks down, but after a moment, Hannibal pulls away again. The air is tense and heated between them and none of it’s from the usual warmth of an Italian summer. Will turns his gaze towards the wide blue sea, and inhales a sharp lungful of salt. 

They end the excursion with a good, generous haul. Giovanni offers to make them dinner, adhering to traditional Sorrentine recipes tried and true for generations.

Hannibal (just barely) politely declines, waving off the offer because they’ve already made plans for dinner. Giovanni is not the suspicious type and is happy enough to take the explanation as fact. After that, they trade a handful of euros for a wrapped packet of mackerel, which Will tucks securely under his arm. 

“I never taught her how to fish,” Will says. The thought has been swimming in his head all day; yet as soon as the words leave his mouth, they feel explicitly foreign, as if he’s hardly spent any time with them. 

“I imagine Abigail might have taken to it quite naturally. Though whether she would have _enjoyed_ it—” Hannibal pops the cork to a bottle of Voignier that’s been chilling in the fridge. He fills two glasses and sets one down next to Will, lingering close. 

Will is staring at dead pale mackerel on a wooden chopping board. They’ve rented a quaint little villa for the weekend. It boasts a view, of course, but Hannibal’s primary concern had been whether the kitchen had the appropriate crockery. 

Needless to say, Hannibal is good at getting what he wants. 

In one hand, Will holds a freshly whetted knife. He cuts into the flesh of the mackerel along its vein, and slices up to the gills. The motion is quick and practical. It’s Will’s first time with mackerel, but he’s no stranger to gutting fish. It feels good to pull the guts out of the mackerel with his bare hands. After that, he plops the cleaned mackerel into a nearby bowl of salted water. 

“You gut fish like a fisherman.” Hannibal is still watching him intently. “You only work like that, quickly if you’re in a hurry for your next catch.” 

“I am a fisherman,” Will reminds him, but he’s suddenly not sure. To distract himself, he reaches for the next mackerel and angles his knife, ready to impale the vein once more. 

“It’s all very well,” Hannibal says, taking a sip of wine, “teaching a man to fish. But if he never learns how to treat his catch with respect, then he might be well within his rights to fall prey to mercury poisoning.” He gestures. “May I, please?” 

Will moves over to make room, but instead of taking the knife from him, Hannibal simply slides his own grip over Will’s on the handle of the knife, like he’s sliding on a second skin. 

Just for a moment, Will is more aware than anything else, of how easy it might be, to think like a fisherman and stab Hannibal in the wrist—quick and practical again. But this moment, like many others that have come before it, passes. 

“She might have enjoyed it,” Will says, watching the knife move very slowly along the mackerel’s vein; it’s almost like he’s having an out-of-body experience, an action made flesh. This time, it’s Hannibal who reaches to scoop out the mackerel’s guts. “She might not have. We’ll never know.” He can't help but add, "Thanks to you."

“I’m sorry, Will. I am,” Hannibal speaks so softly that it’s little more than an exhale of breath near Will’s ear. 

“Me too,” Will says, and stays still. 

Under Hannibal’s careful instruction, Will prepares the rest of their dinner. He stares at a pan on low heat as the notable tang of lemon fills the kitchen. They finish one bottle of Viognier and Hannibal opens another. After all, they’re on vacation. Then Hannibal makes Will cut celeriac, and doesn’t manage to come up with a parable for that. 

“I did it for you,” Hannibal says finally, as he grates lemon zest over freshly fried breadcrumbs. He sprinkles a careful spoonful onto each plate, right on top of the quaint dollop of mayonnaise. “To absolve you of any responsibility.” 

“I,” Will starts, and he doesn’t know how to finish, so he doesn’t. 

“The last thing you found out about Abigail caused you to lose your mind, Will,” Hannibal says this, as if Will needs reminding. Maybe he does. Hannibal slides a perfectly presented plate in front of him.

“To wonder what she would have been truly capable of,” Hannibal continues, “always waiting for the other shoe to drop. That’s not the life I wish for you.”

Will almost laughs, “So it’s for my own good, is it?”

“I only ever want what’s best for you, Will.”

“What about you, then?” The familiar taste of bile rises up Will’s throat, but he’ll have to try to not let it ruin his dinner. The reaction is visceral and present and it hurts to swallow. “You and me, we’re not that much better, are we, Hannibal?” 

“Perhaps not,” Hannibal inclines his head mildly. He spots Will’s empty glass and wastes no time pouring him more wine. “But Will, at least you know what I’m capable of. Isn’t that a relief?” 

Will reaches for the delicate stem of his wineglass and takes a small sip, along with a bite of the mackerel fillet and its flaky skin. He feels the oiliness of the mackerel being washed away by the acidity of the Viognier. Even so, a funny taste, a ghost of an unpleasant flavor is stuck curled around his tonsils. 

“I guess it is,” Will says, pressing his lips thoughtfully against the side of his glass. He thinks that he must mean it.

**Author's Note:**

> The recipe referenced in the fic can be found [here](https://www.olivemagazine.com/recipes/fish-and-seafood/mackerel-celeriac-and-lemon/).
> 
> N.b.: the "Funny oceanography" tag is there to cover my own ass, since I'm not completely sure if mackerel hang around the Sorrentine Peninsula, but it is a popular tourist destination for fishing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: 'Line and Sinker' by asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24911692) by [peasina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasina/pseuds/peasina)




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